


Out of Line

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Because he's conflicted, Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Discussions of sexuality, Future Fic, M/M, Mild Language, Morse plays hard to get, Written without reference to s7, biscuits - Freeform, late 1970s, perhaps period-untypical acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse is pushing forty when Sam Thursday comes back into his life. He'd be happy with friendship; he's always found Sam uncomplicated, easy company. But Sam wants more... and Morse realises he does too.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Sam Thursday
Comments: 73
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm giving up guys! I wanted to get this finished before I started posting, but I'm weak for feedback.
> 
> Happy with neither title nor blurb, but if you've managed to get past those I think the fic itself is actually ok? :D 
> 
> The title in the end came from 'Young Girl' by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. The song is catchy but a bit icky in subject matter, because it's basically a guy saying a girl is too young for him ('just a baby in disguise'... like, how young are we talking?!) and should run away because he might change his mind and have her anyway and that would be bad. But it came out in 1968 and it made me laugh thinking about Morse applying it to 6'3'' Sam Thursday in his 30s...

He never spent much time thinking about Sam Thursday. Sam is... uncomplicated, in a way Thursday, as his boss, can never be. In a way Mrs Thursday, with her gentle voice and smile like his mother’s, can’t manage either. And certainly the polar opposite of how he feels around Miss Thursday, with her hair and her eyes and her looks in the mirror as she paints her lips.

Sam is Sam. The only one who can go by his first name. He’s a tall, gangly teenager who roots in the box for the cereal prize long after he should care about such things, who watches football and teases his sister. Who sits secure and comfortable in the warm embrace of his family. He’s a fixture of the Thursday house, and then he heads off to the army and he isn’t.

Oh, he hears about him from time to time. Updates in the form of what he said on his last phone call home. Enough to know - through the lens of what he’ll reveal to his parents - that he’s okay. He’s interested peripherally, the way you’re interested in people who mean a lot to those you care about, but while he sees Mrs Thursday’s hesitant reaches for the cereal box and Thursday’s glances at the picture on his desk, nothing much changes.

Then they get called out to the army base, and there he is. It’s a shock, seeing Sam again - he can only be twenty, but the teenager has melted away to leave a soldier, of the kind he remembers from his own days in the signals. One who will stand true, steadfast, who won’t abandon his friends when times get tough. He takes after his dad that way, but there’s enough of his mother’s kindness mixed in, his sister’s humour, to soften the effect, and marry with his height and features. He gets the distinct impression that this is a man who doesn’t need to go looking for company when he’s off out of an evening.

Sam’s involvement makes the case personal, and Morse knows he gives him more benefit of the doubt than he would any other soldier on this base. He tells himself it’s because he’s a Thursday, not because he’s Sam. But there is something about him that Morse wants to save - maybe the simplicity that seems to be fading every day. Because while it’s true that Sam isn’t exactly a damsel in distress, he is in trouble. Morse pushes himself harder than even he usually does, breathing a sigh of relief when the truth comes out.

He thinks about Sam from time to time. Soon he’s fully trained, and Thursday mentions his unit is dispatched to Ireland. Morse keeps half an eye and half an ear on the troubles after that, but figures no news is good news. There’s the odd titbit, similar to how he hears Carol got engaged, and knows Mrs Thursday’s sister moved house, but they don’t bump into each other on Sam’s infrequent trips home. Then the mess with Thursday happens - the biting and the bile - he’s not sure how his one solid relationship has devolved to this, but they drift apart. And Sam recedes in memory, until he’s just someone he used to half know.

\--

“Morse?”

He turns, tensing; the voice is unfamiliar, but after fifteen years as a police officer he’s known to an unsettlingly large contingent of Oxford’s underworld.

The man who spoke is tall and dark, but looking at him with open friendliness rather than hostility. He walks over from the bar and takes the seat opposite Morse without an invitation. “I thought it was you. How have you been?”

Someone from Lonsdale? Or an old colleague, someone he brushed past at the kettle every day, but never bothered to see? The man laughs; he’s obviously clocked that Morse is at a loss, but doesn’t seem to mind. He takes a drink of his pint then offers his hand across the table. Morse grasps it, and shakes quickly but firmly. Professional. Polite.

“Sam Thursday. Nice to meet you.”

Oh god. Now he’s said, it’s obvious - the dark hair, the dark eyes, the way his head brushed the low beams of the pub’s ceiling. 

“Sam,” he repeats, with a rueful smile. “Sorry. Back for a visit?”

“Nah, given it up. The army got ten years of me, figured it’s time I learn something new.” 

Has it really been so long? It’s not all his fault then; Sam has changed, grown up. Morse is almost forty and Sam must be thirty now, the only hint of the teenager he once was in his eyes, the tilt of his smile. His jaw has hardened, the gangliness is gone, and - and he’s spent far too long staring.

“Like what?”

“Do you recommend the police?”

He snorts, then realises it was a serious question. “Shouldn’t you be asking your dad that?”

“Ah, he’s old school.” It’s true Thursday’s retired now, two years out. “I need to know what modern policing is like.”

“I’m not sure I’m modern.”

“Over the hill already?” 

The teasing is familiar, the same style of barbs and jokes he remembers being fired between Sam and Joan over dining room tables and down stairs. Sharp words that are tempered by sparkling eyes and curved lips, and he finds himself smiling in return. “Practically in my dotage,” he agrees.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The teasing tone is gone, the words a shade too serious and delivered along with eyes that suddenly won’t meet his. Morse takes a gulp of his drink to cover his confusion. It leaves him with just the dregs, and it’s an excuse to leave - an early morning, another engagement - but instead he tilts the glass towards Sam. “Another?” he offers.

“Yeah, alright then.”

Sam asks question after question about work, Morse’s specialist subject, and the conversation flows until they’re two more pints and a packet of crisps each down. It’s still easy enough talking with Sam. There are layers to him now, but then, he never knew him well before anyway. “You not meeting anyone?” Sam asks eventually. 

“What?”

“Date, or - I don’t know.”

It should be obvious he’s not, from the way they’ve sat here uninterrupted for two hours. It would make Morse question Sam’s suitability for a life in the police, except there’s an undercurrent that suddenly makes him hyper aware of the other man, the way he sprawls in his chair, the way the alcohol has made him looser, sloppier. 

“No.”

“Hmm.” Sam leans forward, elbows on the table and dangerously close to a pool of spilled beer. Morse watches it, because it’s easier than watching Sam, only a foot away. “Good.”

“Sam-” he’s not sure where he’s going with it, and interrupts himself. He was always leaning back in his chair, but now he notes the press of it against his back, the texture of the fabric.

“Morse.”

He’d never - he’d never think, except he  _ is  _ a detective, and a good one at that, and the clues Sam’s leaving are pretty damn large. He looks at Sam’s hands, wrists still almost delicate, the one place the army hasn’t bulked him up. He trails his eyes up, up, until he’s looking directly at Sam and Sam is looking back. He could. 

He couldn’t.

“What about you, joining a football team again?”

The atmosphere splinters, and if Sam’s gaze shutters for a second, it’s back and friendly, if a little resigned, a moment later. 

“Probably. I’ll need something to keep me fit. I think my old club closed though - you don’t play, do you?”

“No, I’m definitely not the person to ask.”

\--

It was one surreal evening, that’s all. He had been pleasantly drunk when he’d got home and tipped himself into bed. The following morning was like any other, a new case to get his teeth stuck into, and Sam Thursday and the pub becomes just another strange interlude in his life.

He doesn’t really expect him to join the police, thinks most of that conversation was probably a product of someone unsure what to do and a lack of other conversation topics - picking something they have in common to pass the time. He checks the rosta of new recruits a couple of times anyway, and is both pleased and disappointed to find himself correct, no familiar names coming through at all.

It’s probably for the best. 

\--

He’s having a companionable drink with Max a month later, when the crowd at the bar parts and there Sam is again. He looks freer this time, and he suddenly wonders exactly how long Sam had been out of the army when they last met. This time, he’s surrounded by people, mostly men like himself although a couple of wives or girlfriends are dotted about too. Sam hasn’t seen him, and he’s not sure if he ever even met Max - either way, they’re tucked away in the corner like the middle aged men they are. He likes how their anonymity means he’s clear to flick his gaze up every now and again. He catches the look of a laugh as well as the sound, sees the way the smile lights up his whole face and his head tips back, exposing his long neck.

“...and that’s when I said that if they were going to treat a crime scene like that I’d come round and murder them in their beds.”

“What?”

“Oh, you were listening? Could have fooled me. Something caught your eye?” Max smiles, slow and knowing, but his back is to the group so it’s general rather than specific. “Or someone?”

“No, nothing.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop theorising, it’s unlike you. What did you really say to Peters?”

Max fixes him with a stern look, but then relents. “I told him I’d murder him in his bed, you know I don’t mince my words when it comes to crime scene deportment.”

He laughs, and when he looks up again he’s held fast by Sam’s gaze, spotted. He’s clearly unsure, and Morse nods in recognition. Sam takes it as more permission than it really was, and excuses himself from his group. 

“Hey Morse.”

He nods again, and feels a bit silly. “Hi Sam. Um, this is Doctor Debryn.”

Max twists in his chair, and offers his hand. “Max,” he says kindly, with a darting look back at Morse. “How do you two know each other?”

Morse shifts slightly, and somehow Sam finds a spare chair and swings it up to their table. “Sam Thursday,” he clarifies, and recognition dawns on Max’s face. 

“So that’s who you were staring at,” he teases Morse, because he doesn't realise, he wasn’t there for the undercurrent before. But Sam just grins, guileless, and nods. 

“Didn’t know this was a copper haunt.”

“About that,” Morse cuts in. “Didn’t work out?”

“Not really for me.” He looks up at Max, and explains, “I’ve left the army, thought I might try the police.”

“And Morse convinced you otherwise.”

“For the best.” He finishes his drink, and Morse thinks that might be it, another brief interlude, two people who know each other to acknowledge when they cross paths, nothing more - but then he stands, leaving his jacket hooked over the chair. “What are you two drinking? Morse, you on the bitter?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Max?”

Max has that sly look on his face again, and he shakes his head. “Not for me. Early call in the morning, and the dead don’t wait.”

“I’d have thought that’s all they can do,” mutters Morse.

“Nice to meet you, Max.” They shake hands again, and then Max leaves with a chuckle and Sam heads to the bar and it hits him that they’re in the same situation as they were the first time. Sam sets two pints on the table.

“You can go back to your friends,” he says awkwardly. “I’ve got the crossword-”

“I see them all the time, let me talk about something different.”

“Like what?”

Sam shrugs helplessly. “What do you like?”

As expected, Sam knows next to nothing about opera. Unusually, he’s reasonably well versed in classical music more generally, and they manage a decent conversation about André Previn, arguing the merits of his film score work compared to recordings with the London Symphony Orchestra. He forgets about Sam’s group, caught up in music and  _ Sam _ , and it’s only when one of them comes to tap him on the shoulder and let him know they’re heading off that he realises the pub is half-empty. The landlord calls last orders.

“One for the road?” asks Sam.

“On me,” he insists. He gets them both whiskeys, and the way Sam swallows his instead of savouring it makes it clear it’s not a favourite. 

“Trying to get me drunk?” Sam asks in an undertone, when his glass is empty. He wasn’t, of course, whiskey is just more of a nightcap than beer. Knowing that doesn’t remove the insinuation, the illicit thrill that sparks down his spine. He shakes his head, and hides his expression behind another slow mouthful, then turns the glass on the table. Besides, Sam seems able to hold his liquor better this time, several drinks down and none of the languid slouching or steady eye contact of before. “Pity.”

His head snaps up. “Don’t-”

“Don’t what?” Sam laughs, but it’s usual warmth is gone and his voice is rough. “Either you’re fooling yourself, or you need to sort out the signals you send before someone more dangerous than me gets the wrong idea.”

“I can’t.”

It’s too much of an admission. It’s  _ interest _ ; it’s an opening instead of the shutdown he should have delivered. Sam leans forward and that other night comes rushing back, and somehow it’s all still on the table, he’s just not sure  _ why _ . Why a man like Sam would look twice at him. Why he’d keep coming back.

“You can.”

“You’re…” He wants to say Sam Thursday, like that’s an answer in itself, but he’s aware it wouldn’t go down well. It is the reason though. For all his thoughts, all his new knowledge of Sam now, there’s still that memory of a teenager and a cereal box, and a latent, buried loyalty to a long gone governor. He wishes he was Sam Jones, an every man. That he had no idea what his childhood home looked like, or the look in his eyes when he burned the breakfast, or what his mother put in his sandwiches every Tuesday. That he could say yes, see what happened here and fear no repercussions, no awkward encounters or entangled lives beyond a couple of drinks and what takes place behind a locked door.

“I’m thirty years old.”

“Right?”

“If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I can count, thank you.”

“Alright know-it-all, why not then?” He leans back again and the sprawl this time is intentional; it’s a display, he knows what he looks like and he’s using it. Temptation. Half of Morse wants to scoff, and the other half - he’s only ever been good as resisting up to a point. He tips the rest of his whiskey back and sets the glass on the table with a sharp crack.

“Because I can’t.”

The night is cold when he heads out, but the door doesn’t open again, and although he walks slowly, the street behind stays empty and quiet.

\--

It should have been the end of it. Everything come to a head and out in the open, and now time to move on. But he’s never been good at letting go, and while he can give himself sharp talkings to in the daylight hours, they have zero effect on his subconscious brain. His dreams are fragmented, half-forgotten things, but there’s a distinct lingering impression of dark hair and dark eyes, and he’s pretty sure it wasn’t Joan his hands ran over. 

He has no idea where Sam is. They never exchanged numbers or addresses, and they don’t bump into each other, although time and again he’ll swing by a random pub after work for a quick drink, telling himself it’s an old habit. He never asked what Sam had chosen to do instead of policing.

It can’t be forgotten, though, because it would be so easy to find him if he really tried. Joan would know, and Thursday, and while they don’t really see each other any more, his birthday is coming up so it wouldn’t be too out of character to turn up with a bottle. But asking Thursday where Sam is - while his thoughts bend the way they do - makes his stomach turn. 

He buys a decent bottle of whiskey anyway, but it sits in his living room until the day passes by, then the week. He cracks it open one evening and gets blackout drunk to the sound of Renata Tibaldi.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright matey?” He winces as a paper file slaps onto his desk, headache from the night’s drinking looming uncomfortably large. “We’ve got a suspicious over in Jericho, or an almost definite suicide in Park Town. What do you fancy?”

He waves his hand for the bit of paper with the details scribbled down. “Suspicious.”

“You do surprise me.” Strange hands over the scrap of notebook leaf. “Say, if you’re back by five - pub tonight?”

For once, the thought of alcohol makes his stomach roll. But perhaps by then, with a day of fresh air… “Yeah, yeah, maybe.”

\--

The address turns out not to be there yet; it’s a building site, a development of new houses to accommodate some of Oxford’s growing population. Uniformed police are already organising the scene, and as the site foreman hands him a hard hat and shows him through, he comes across Debryn crouched over the body.

“Morning Max.”

“Morse,” he answers. He looks up, and his face twists. “Not such a good one for you, by the looks of things. Or this poor sod.”

He glances at the body, but there’s a lot of blood, spilled and dried in the sun. He takes it in quickly, and removes his gaze to Debryn’s back. “Strange said this was a suspicious?”

“I’m reserving judgement until I get him on the slab. Death would have been guaranteed by the fall,” he waves at a platform of scaffolding towering above them, “but whether he jumped, fell, was pushed or thrown over already done for, remains to be seen.”

“Got a name?”

Max hands him a wallet and carries on as he pokes through. “Charles Spencer. The foreman said he worked here, went by Charlie.” 

He counts a few crumpled notes, so it’s not likely a robbery. Going by his smart trousers and shirt, it’s probably not a case of falling off on the job, either. “Doesn’t look like he’s ready to work a shift.”

“Mmm, well time of death window is wide open at this point, he could have been here all night.”

“Max-”

“I’ll narrow it down later.”

Morse rolls his eyes. “Any idea who found him?”

Max stands, using one hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “Start of shift, as far as I could gather, so all a bit of a confusion. Uniforms assembled everyone over there. Shall we say two o'clock?”

He nods, and bids goodbye before heading over to the crowd. They’re rowdy with a strange mixture of good-natured holiday vibes from the delay to the start of their shift, and shock - probably from those who knew him. He pulls out his badge, and raises his voice over the babble. “Thames Valley Police. I’m going to need to talk to everyone, but I want to start with who actually found the body.” 

A stocky man in blue dungarees shifts forward. “Was me and the new guy.”

“New guy?”

“Morning, Sergeant.” 

His stomach flips. Of course it would be. Here, the day he’s looking like death warmed up. “Morning, uh. I’ll talk to you individually, S- you, first.” He points at Sam and stalks off around the corner. He leans against the wall, and wipes his hands on his trousers until Sam appears.

“You’re labouring then?” he asks. It spills out, a need to avoid silence. Perhaps a need to control the conversation. 

“It’s honest work.”

“Never said it wasn’t.” 

Sam smokes now, and he watches as he lights a cigarette and takes a drag. He’s dressed for manual labour; it's a look that works for him with shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows and open at the collar. He turns away to exhale the smoke, and Morse has to rip his gaze away from the line of his throat. 

“Just filling in. Until I work out what I want to do.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.”

“I thought that’s exactly what you had to do when you’re questioned by the police.” He leans against the wall next to Morse, and he’s close enough that their arms brush. “I’m an old hand at this now.”

“Look, you don’t have to worry, it won’t be like last time. We’ll get this sorted.”

“You going to save me Morse, is that it? Is that the secret?”

He clears his throat and flips open his notebook. He does actually have a job to do. “Hardly.”

“I’m not your damsel in distress-”

“What time did you arrive on site?”

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. He pushes off the wall and twists until they’re face to face. He’s got a good five inches on Morse, and he can’t remember the last time they stood like this, but it must have been on an army base more than a decade ago. He’d forgotten, in the meantime - their conversations taking place in pub chairs, on a level - while he’d  _ known _ , he’d forgotten how the height difference  _ felt _ .

“Sam,” he hisses, uncomfortably aware of what this could look like, just a shade too close, even as he unconsciously relaxes. He stares up. No one really knows who he is, and he’s hidden anyway by Sam’s bulk - but they know Sam and he has to work with them day after day if they get the wrong idea. Or the right one.

“It’s fine,” he drawls. “They think twice about picking on a six foot three ex-army sergeant, even if they do think he’s a bit of a poof. I arrived at 8.05.”

Morse double takes, whiplash from the change of topic. He clicks his pen absentmindedly and notes it down. “And you saw him straight away?”

“Nope. Went and got my hat and boots out of the store, so found him maybe 8.10.”

“And that other man was with you?” 

“Greg Parks. Yeah. He’s my supervisor.”

“And the victim?”

“Don’t know him. Nothing more than his name anyway, Charlie. I’m casual muscle because they’re running behind. Only been here a week, and got one more to go.”

He’s writing everything down, because his brain’s only half-engaged and he doesn’t trust that anything about this conversation will have been committed to memory except the clean smell of Sam and the way he blocks out the sun. 

Sam leans closer still, until if anyone saw it wouldn’t be a question, it would be a confirmation. He shivers. 

“Anything else detective?”

“No,” he says shortly, sidling sideways until he can step out and breathe again. “Sam…”

Sam smiles, a resigned, half-quirk of a thing. “Whatever, Morse. Sorry,” he says quietly, walking away. Morse watches until he realises what he’s doing, and steps around the wall into view of the other workers. He gestures for Greg Parks.

The rest of the interviews go quickly, a few possible leads about arguments but overall not much of anything. He was a quiet man-, by all accounts, kept to himself but not so much as to be suspicious. One or two mentioned a sister, but they thought she lives up North somewhere, so she’s unlikely to be much help.

He’s folding his notebook away when he sees the familiar sight of Dorothea Frazil picking her way across the mud in shoes not altogether up to the task.

“You don’t exactly take your time, do you?”

“Early bird, Morse, you know how it is. Anything you can tell me?”

“Not much. Builder called Charlie Spencer.”

“Murder?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know yet, we’ll do some digging around.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes at him. “Not exactly the story of the month, is it?”

“I didn’t tell you to come out here.” 

She looks away, frowning at the crowd of builders. Someone’s handed out cups of tea and found a few packets of biscuits, and it’s descended into a kind of picnic, men perched on half-built walls and leaning against cement mixers. As a supervisor, Parks seems pretty ineffective, unsure what to do with half the site closed and coppers still milling about - Frazil hadn’t even been given a hard hat. He offers his over, but she ignores it. 

“No one suspicious among the workers?”

“Not really. We’ll run their backgrounds, but-”

“Because one of them is  _ definitely  _ keeping his eye on us.” She raises her hand in a little sardonic wave, and he follows the motion to a pair of dark eyes among the builders.

“That’s Sam.”

“Sam?” Her tone is interested, engaged, like there’s a story there to ferret out, and the worst thing is that there sort of is. He takes pains to keep his voice bland. 

“Thursday. Sam Thursday.”

“Fred’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Second time at a crime scene, isn’t it?”

He snorts, and smiles at the way her lips curve up in response. “He’s not a serial killer.”

“No, I imagine not. Didn’t recognise him though, the army’s done wonders there.” She smiles over at him again, and Morse breathes through a tightness in his chest. He shifts from foot to foot, and flicks through his notes. “So why’s he staring at you?”

He is? He checks, but they’re too far away to tell. Could be staring at Frazil. 

Probably isn’t, insists a little voice.

“Face from the past, I suppose.”

“Hmm.”

“I need to get on. Do you need a lift back to town?”

“No, I’ve got a car.”

“Right, well.” He hands her his hard hat, and scuffs a hand over his flattened hair. “Goodbye.”

\--

He works the case as he does any other, following leads, interviewing suspects and generally keeping his mind as far away from Sam Thursday as it’s possible to be when his name keeps popping up in the witness statements and reports. 

If this really was any other case, he’d talk to Sam again. Check his story. But it isn’t, and it’s not exactly procedure, but he  _ knows _ Sam didn’t push someone to their death, so it’d be a waste of time. 

That’s why he doesn’t go find him. He can’t afford to waste time.

It turns out not to matter; he gets lucky, pulling a thread which seems peculiar and stories unravel, leading to a foot chase through Oxford’s streets and a solid arrest. It was murder. Just old-fashioned hatred for someone who lived on the edges.

He writes his reports the same evening, bashing them out while everything is still fresh in his mind. By the time he finishes the office has emptied around him. The main lights are turned off, eyes starting to strain in the gloom, and the sky outside darkened with rain. It’s either a long walk home or a short walk to the pub, so in the end it’s not even a choice.

“Pint of bitter.” 

He’s without a newspaper, so he takes a seat at the bar. The first mouthful is a relief, a soothing balm working against the dampness of his collar and the ache in his wrists from the typewriter. He yawns and leans on one hand. This case hasn’t run him ragged - not the way some of them do - but he’d still like the rain to stop so he can get home. 

“You show up like a bad penny, don’t you?” Sam swings onto the stool next to his, and he fights the urge to groan. He drinks instead, as Sam indicates for a pint and settles in, hands grasping the bar. He’s got nice hands; long, slender fingers, but roughed up from physical labour. The kind of hands that burn paths as they trail across skin. He imagines.

“Heard you got him.”

“Mmm. Charged, anyway.”

“Thanks.” Morse shrugs, and Sam takes a long drink of his pint. “No, I mean it. I don’t know how often you get thanked. But there are those of us who appreciate what you do, even when we don’t really know the people.”

For once he doesn’t want to talk about work. Doesn’t want to wallow in the darkness. “Are you done now? Said you only had one more week on the job.”

“It’s running even further behind, with everything. They’ve promised me another three days, then it’s back into the unemployed pool.” He scratches at the bar with one thumbnail. “How did you know what you wanted to do?”

Morse chuckles. “I didn’t. Started university and dropped out. Tried the signals and left. Nearly gave up the police at one point, had my resignation letter written and everything.” 

“What stopped you?”

He’s not sure how it all comes out so easily, but talking to Sam has never been the problem. He invites confidence without demanding it. It’s an echo of his old simplicity, and it’s a breath of fresh air after a week of policemen and murderers. “Your dad, actually. Working with him. He promised me a transfer into Cowley. A fresh start… seemed worth giving it a chance.”

“I asked Dad about you, you know.”

“What?”

“Said I’d bumped into you in the pub, and asked if he saw you much. He said he’d seen you once since his retirement do.”

“We… drifted.”

“Differences of opinion, he said.”

“Something like that.”

Sam hums. “Time was I thought you were going to end up family, one way or the other.”

“One way or…?”

“Adopted by mum and dad, or married to Joan.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” He tips his glass lightly, watching the bubbles cling to the sides. "Seemed like it was, from the way she let me rile her about it."

Morse sighs, twisting slightly to angle himself towards Sam. It sort of was, and it certainly could have been, but the whole world tipped on one refusal and careened down a different path. It’s not his secret to tell, so he sticks to a version of the truth. “We never even kissed. Or dated. Except by accident once, on a blind date.”

Sam finishes his pint. “The rain’s stopped.”

“Are you heading out?”

“Yeah. Long day.”

Morse nods, but hurriedly tips back the dregs of his own drink. “Same.”

Sam hesitates. “You’re coming too?”

He says nothing, but picks up his coat and leads the way out the door.

\--

“So how do you accidentally date, even blindly?”

Morse has his hands deep in his pockets, and glances sideways. He still doesn’t know where Sam lives, but they’d fallen into step outside the pub, so they must be over the same side of town. “Strange.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“No, I mean Jim Strange. He had a girl, who had a friend…” he sighs. “Is this really what you want to talk about?”

Sam huffs, amusement colouring his tone. “No, but if I talk about what I want to talk about, you’ll leg it down the next alley.”

His mouth goes dry. He knows what Sam  _ means _ , that he’ll run away, and the suggestion - scared, cowardly - sparks irritation. But you can’t be a policeman for years without knowing what goes on down some alleyways, and the unmeant insinuation chases a blush across his face, making sweat prickle under his arms. He’s inordinately glad for the shadows between street lights. 

“This is me.”

Sam stops, but Morse carries on a few steps before he realises. He turns to see Sam standing awkwardly, lit from behind and one hand on the handle of a door.

“Oh. Right.” 

“So I’ll see you around.” He turns, and those hands dig into the pockets of his trousers, coming up with a key that fits into the lock. The street is deserted, quiet, and Morse hears the snick and clunk of it turning, the scrape of metal on metal as it’s pulled back out. 

Morse raises one hand, and scrubs at the hair behind his ear. Scared. Coward. What goes on in the darkness.

“Morse?”

“Mmm?”

Sam steps inside, and - and it’s his own feet that follow after, although he’s pretty sure he didn’t give them the order. But they move him forward, sounding sure against the stone of the front steps, and they follow Sam through a corridor until he reaches the door of his own flat, and then once that’s opened - 

He pushes Sam through. 

His hands drift up from that warm chest, up into Sam’s hair, but it’s a reach and he crowds forward instead, backing him into a wall. That clean, honest smell of Sam is back and it’s so easy to sink into it, pull Sam down until he can fit their mouths together, feel Sam’s surprised gasp followed by the hot curl of his tongue. God, it’s been a long time. When was it? That he last kissed someone?

Too long.

Sam’s hands reach around, resting on his hips and there’s no space between them but he tries to get closer anyway, desperate suddenly for more. He deepens the kiss until it’s hot and wet, better than he’d dared to think, better than his dreams could create. Sam’s hands grip instead of caress, and he slouches down against the wall to improve the angle, tangling their legs together. There’s an unfamiliar rasp of stubble against his cheek - Sam must not have shaved today, and -

Sam. Who Thursday probably taught to shave, father to son. 

He pushes away, realisation shocking him like a bucket of cold water. What is he doing? He disentwines himself, no easy task until Sam gets it and lets him go.

“Morse?”

“I - I can’t-”

“You  _ can _ ,” Sam groans, and it would be nothing to step back in, if he didn’t have that image running through his head. Sam would have been what? Thirteen? Fourteen? Perched on the edge of the bath as Thursday demonstrated, then handed over the razor, the shaving cream. Morse was already in the bloody signals, he was only a handful of years from falling asleep on the Thursday family sofa…

“I want to,” he admits. It feels wrenched from him and comes out angrier than he intended, quiet but forced. He steps back further, until he can think.

“So why?”

“Because I can’t-”

“It’s Dad, isn’t it? Why do you keep letting him stand here?” Sam gestures angrily at the couple of feet between them. “I can practically feel him, he’s right there every time you hold back from me!”

Because it’s not so easy to let things go. He shakes his head. There’s nothing he can say.

Sam deflates. “Just go,” he says, sounding tired. Morse knows how he feels, suddenly hollowed out and weary. He nods, and lets himself out.

\--

He knows Sam’s frustrated with him. He’s frustrated with himself too. Sam’s right; there is a Thursday-shaped spectre between them and it rears its head any time Sam takes one step out of the safe, friendship role he’s shoved him in to. But equally he keeps hauling him out of it, because he  _ wants  _ them to cross that line, and it’s not fair.

He has crossed the line. But then danced back across it, hoping it could be forgotten.

He knows it can’t. They’re going to have to cross it for good or forget it all, and he can feel the moment of decision hovering in the air. But to forget it… to say goodbye and have Sam fade into the mist again… he went a decade without seeing him. Another one and he’ll be knocking on the door of fifty. 

He desires him. That much is clear - it’s a physical reaction any time they’re in speaking distance, a prickling under his skin, a magnetic pull towards the other man. But he also genuinely  _ likes _ him, he can spend hours talking with him in a way he’s not managed with so many of his other partners.

Maybe it’s time. If he can exorcise one ghost.

He takes a deep breath, eyes skittering over familiar bushes and bricks, and the way new yellow daffodils have been planted in the borders. It’s been a long time since he stood on this doorstep. 

He rings the bell.


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday opens the door himself, and steps back in surprise. “Morse?”

“Uh, sir-”

“Well, now - Fred is probably…” he trails off, and they both look uncomfortably at the ground. 

“Happy birthday,” Morse says desperately, shoving forward a bottle he’d picked up on the way. It’s weeks late and nothing fancy, but Thursday examines the label and makes pleased noises, and it manages to take them over the threshold and into the living room.

“Pour you a drop?” Thursday offers, and Morse nods. He accepts the glass thankfully, more for something to do with his hands than for the alcohol within.

Although, he thinks as he takes his first sip, the alcohol will probably help.

“Now then.” Thursday settles into his chair, and Morse casts his eyes around the room. It’s not changed at all - same furniture, same wallpaper. Same slippers poking out from underneath the sofa. 

“I… wanted to… clear the air.”

“Nothing to clear.” It’s a kind lie, designed to step them away from a conversation they’ve been putting off for years. Morse shakes his head. If he’s going to get through this - well, in all probability he’ll say the wrong thing and make everything worse, but at this point there isn’t much left to lose. 

“No, there is.”

Thursday looks at him gravely. He might be retired, but he’s not obviously softened for his time away from the dirt and darkness. Seems a lifetime of it leaves a mark, that not even retirement years of dancing and daffodils can cure.

“You gave me a lot,” he says hesitantly. “A lot of… freedom, when others wouldn’t. Trust.” He can’t look up now, can’t look at the home he was so easily welcomed into. He fixes his gaze instead on the warm amber of his mid-range whiskey. “I repaid that poorly.”

“Perhaps.” He hears rustling, and then the strike of a match. The old familiar aroma of pipe smoke drifts over to him, and he looks up to find Thursday regarding him closely. “But that’s the way of bagmen and governors. You’re always meant to move on from us. Doesn't make it any easier, mind. But it is the natural order.”

“You weren’t-” past it, is what he wants to say. But even in denial the words seem too harsh. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.”

“And that’s the nature of police work. You follow the facts, and some of it’s in your gut, but what’s in my gut won’t necessarily be in yours, and vice versa.”

Morse can’t help a small smile. “I’m still sorry.”

“If I’d known you were still holding on to this… well, maybe I’d have said something sooner. I figured you’d just spread your wings. You’d been ready to for a while. Probably why you fought me so much.”

“I didn’t-”

“You did, and you know it. Like a son against his father.”

The words settle heavy in his stomach. He’d wanted that once. He’d wondered in the small hours, worse the wear for drink, how life might have been different if he’d been brought up as a Thursday. And now look at him. 

“It's the sign of a decent man, when he can let his children go. You taught me that, with Joanie. Making her own decisions, and getting into her own scrapes, and you siding with her against me, not telling me where she was. Shook me, I’m not gonna lie, but you were right. In the long run.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, “I’m glad she had you.”

“Oh,” Morse releases his breath in an amused huff, “it was never like that.” Could have been, he knows. But wasn’t.

“We all need friends in this world.”

Morse hums, and takes another mouthful of his drink. It’s getting better, the further down the glass, and he holds it out when Thursday gestures to the bottle again. The top up is generous, but he can feel the tension of their early conversation melting away. It’s like the Thursday home is welcoming him in again, socks burrowing into the carpet and sofa cradling him as the alcohol starts to make itself known.

“I don’t know if you know, but…”

“Mmm?”

“Joanie. She’s getting married.”

Once that news would have sent splinters through his heart. Now he just smiles ruefully. “Good for her.”

“He seems a decent sort. She’s had him round for dinner a few times, he’s an estate agent. But very keen her parents don’t get too involved, if you know what I mean. Not looking for our permission.”

“That sounds like Joan.”

“And Sam’s back in town. He said he’s run into you.”

“Yes.” He sips his whiskey. 

“It’s good to have him home. And…” Thursday sighs, irritatedly. Morse raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s good to have you back too, lad.”

Oh. That’s… he knows they were close, once, but he always thought it a professional relationship, at its core, much as he might have liked it to be different. Although now he thinks about it, Strange never slept on this sofa, and Jakes, as far as he knows, never got invited to dinner. Maybe it wasn’t all bagman and governor. Maybe it wasn’t just him, latching on to any connection he could find in the world and making it too much, too important.

“It’s…” good to be back, he wants to say. But he’s never been one for speeches, especially not emotional ones when his throat is closing up. Thursday just nods at him and turns the radio on, letting his awkwardness seep away in the music.

\--

The afternoon has slipped away by the time they rouse themselves, and his head is pleasantly swimming. It’ll be a wending walk across town, but he could do with the air and the exercise, and the chance to sort through it all.

“You won’t stay for dinner?”

“No, I’ve got-”

The door bangs open, and Sam walks in. He’s almost backwards, shrugging out of his coat as he wrestles the door closed, and so he’s nearly on top of them both when he turns and sees Morse standing there.

“Oh. Hello Morse.”

“Sam.”

“Dad.”

Thursday smiles, and takes his coat to hang on the rack. “Come on through when you’ve said hello to your mother, Joanie sent me this new magazine, I want you to have a look at it.” He disappears back into the living room, and somehow the privacy makes Sam seem closer in the small hallway. 

Morse dips to pull on his shoes.

“Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“I’m guessing you're here to get him out from-” he gestures back and forth between them, and Morse hisses, grabbing his arm tightly.

“Can you not ask me that question in the hall of your parents’ house?” he mutters. He wants to shuffle Sam backwards, out the door and down the road. At the very least he doesn’t want to discuss this here, still raw from his conversation with Thursday and half-drunk.

“Is that you, Sam love? Oh, you’re here already!”

“Hey mum.” He leans around Morse and gives her a peck on the cheek. 

“You’re not heading off, Morse? There’s room for another. Chicken pie.”

“Thanks Mrs… Win,” he amends, at her meaningful look. “But I can’t, I’m meeting someone.” He looks at Sam over her shoulder, the way he rolls his eyes at the obvious lie. 

“Next week then,” she promises, and he finds himself agreeing in an odd half-shrug he hopes she doesn’t take as confirmation. “You sure you’re alright to walk?” she asks, peering at him closely. “Sam here could give you a lift, Sam dear, get the keys.”

“No, no, I’m fine, Sam just got here.”

“You sure?” asks Sam.

“Yes, yes.”

“Alright, just let me know about the thing.” It’s brazen, despite the fact that he knows Mrs Thursday won’t be able to decipher it. But to ask him with her  _ right there.  _ He grabs his coat to cover his involuntary jerk. 

“Right. Um… Flag?” He makes himself ask. “Tomorrow, at 7?”

“Sure.”

He escapes out the door then, but before it closes he just hears Mrs Thursday ask, “what was all that then?”

“Pub quiz team. Murray and Benny’ll be buying me drinks for weeks if I can get Morse to join in, he’ll mean we wipe the floor against all those college types.”

\--

He’s nervous entering the Flag the next day, and not sure why he picked a copper pub. Not really sure what made him arrange the meeting at all, when it could so easily have been put off with a vague nod. The anxiety has made him walk quickly, and even though he lingered at his desk he’s made it here early. He orders a pint and a packet of nuts, then sets himself up in the window trying to focus on three down.

Sam drops into the chair next to his. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Very odd,” he manages to drawl around the jump in his stomach. He clicks the cap on his pen and tucks it into his inside pocket. “Pub quiz?”

“Wednesdays,” Sam clarifies. “But you’re more than welcome if you want to give us a hand. I’m decent at geography and Benny’s a whizz at sports, but we could do with your history brain.”

“How do you know I know history?”

“Practically a professor, aren’t you?” The frown is automatic, but softens at Sam’s happy grin. “Dad told us a story once, you and a treasure trove and some up himself don.”

“I’m sure he used exactly that phrasing.”

“Near enough.” Sam steals the packet of nuts and pours a few out, eating them one by one. “Speaking of…”

“Did it work,” Morse finishes with a sigh. Sam nods. “I don’t know. It’s… better, between us at least. But I don’t know.”

“Maybe this was all too quick.” The words hurt, thick with the realisation he’s managed to ruin this too - with his back and forth and too little, too late. Sam extends a hand across the table. He takes it warily, raising an eyebrow as it’s pumped vigorously up and down. “Sam Thursday. Nice to meet you. Again.”

He chuckles, relaxing despite himself. “Yeah, Morse. Likewise.”

“What is your first name, anyway? Dad never said. It can’t actually be DC. Or, well DS I suppose. That would be a right pain, changing your name every time you get a promotion.”

He smiles, ducking his head. He probably owes Sam, at this point. Something, at least, if he can’t get over… everything. “No, it’s… a Quaker name.” 

“Yeah? Guy in my unit had a Quaker cousin. Liberty, I think.”

“No one uses my name. Except my sister Joyce.” It’s been so long since he told someone, he realises. Usually he lets a piece of paper do the talking for him, in hospital or employment records, or he makes do with Morse and a steely smile if anyone tries to dig deeper.

“Sorry, you don’t have to.”

But he wants to. He wants Sam to know, even if he doesn’t necessarily want him to then use the knowledge. He finishes his beer in three quick gulps, uncaring if the action reveals more than it covers. “Endeavour,” he adds quickly, and Sam’s head cocks. “I know, it’s weird.”

“You’re the first one I’ve met, that’s true.” He waits. Sam isn't the type for open mocking, not on something he's made clear he's sensitive about, but there'll be questions, and the inevitable search for a half-decent nickname that'll peter out and kill the conversation. But Sam just finishes off the nuts and shakes the packet out dispiritedly. “Damn. I’ll get some more. Another pint, Morse?”

\--

It seems Sam was serious about becoming friends. 

He calls him at the station to let him know the pub quiz team meets at the Eagle, seven o’clock, and when he throws caution to the wind and turns up the evening is a pleasant one. Sam’s friends are as easy going as he is, and he endears himself to them by helping them to third place and a round of pints on the pub. There are no lingering looks, no undercurrent of tension, and if he finds himself missing it - well, it’s his own fault. This is Sam as he used to be, uncomplicated. 

He surprises everyone, himself included, when he finds his way to the Thursday house the following Sunday. Neither Sam nor Joan have made it, but Mrs Thursday has cooked a delicious lamb roast and seems pleased to have an extra body to feed it to. When he’s eaten as much as humanly possible, he and Thursday wander out into the garden.

“Roses are looking good.”

“Bloody well should be. The damn things get more care than most nippers these days.”

He smiles, ducking his head to hide it. 

“Don’t think I can’t see that smirk. You should try retiring, see what you spend your time on.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got a while yet.”

Thursday studies a leaf and then bends, unearthing a pair of secateurs. “Arrogance of youth. It’ll disappear before you know it.”

“I’m not sure I’m still what you could call a youth, either.”

Thursday grunts, and clips a stray twig. “True enough.” 

Morse turns, until the afternoon sun is on his face. He doesn’t spend much time outside - at least not unless he’s inspecting a crime scene. To be still and quiet in the spring sunshine is an unexpected pleasure. Half-remembered fragments of poetry vie for his attention.

“Do you remember Wilding? From the Wildwood?”

Morse starts, and turns around, sunspots in his eyes and staining the world. Thursday is still inspecting the bush, dropping to his knees with a huff to see more closely. But the movements are too exaggerated; some kind of cover. Why is he thinking about a years old case…? 

“Yes.”

“What did you think of him? As a person?”

Morse regards Thursday closely. “Lost,” he says eventually. “Could have done with some better influences.”

“But about his, ah… proclivities.”

Morse stiffens, then takes care to arrange himself naturally. Even before he’d realised about himself, he'd never thought the direction one's heart swung mattered much. He always felt you could tell more about someone from the books they read, the causes they fought, than who they had in their bed. Besides, he’d has his own head turned more than once by a pretty smile, made stupid decisions based on lust, so it wasn’t like the homosexuality of it was the source of any bad behaviour. “To each their own,” he answers carefully. “I don’t see how it much matters.”

Thursday nods. “Thought that was the case.”

“Is everything alright?”

“I always wondered about Debryn.”

“Oh.” He’d never thought about it himself. He supposes he can see now, why some might - but you saw far too many poetry loving, bowtie wearing men in Oxford colleges with happy wives and children to make assumptions. But Max is kind, clever and funny, and still perpetually alone. “I don’t know.”

“I thought you, at one point.”

“Me?!” 

“Just to begin with, then I saw how you lost your head around every pretty thing that walked by, and that put me straight enough.”

He doesn’t respond. Now is the perfect time to say something, but he’d come round for roast lamb and maybe a beer, and this had never been his intention for the day. He’s unprepared. 

“Unless it’s both? I’ve been informed that’s an option these days.”

These days. Like these things just happen. He manages an odd little shrug, searching for the right words, but Thursday has always been able to read him better than most. 

“It is?” Thursday’s eyebrows raise, but then he nods decisively and clips away at another twig like they’re discussing the weather. 

“I - I suppose I - I mean, that is…”

“Don’t strain something.” There’s a beat of silence while Thursday continues to tend the roses and Morse gapes. “It’s not my place to say, but… well, Sam.... he told us. The other week. Not both, I don’t think. Why couldn’t he just choose a nice girl.”

He coughs, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure it’s a choice.”

Thursday sighs and stands, brushing off the soil now staining his trousers. “No, I suppose not. Still, would have been easier. Happier maybe.”

“It’s not-” he scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. This feels  _ important _ , and the words are too slow to come. “He might not get married. Have kids. But that doesn’t mean… nothing. He can… love,” he forces out. “He can find someone.”

“Yeah?”

“It doesn’t mean a life alone.” 

He’s well aware of the irony of him standing here saying this, almost forty and nothing on the horizon but a swell of lust for the man’s son that he can’t bring himself to either abandon or accept. He can’t imagine a happy ending for himself, but he can for Sam - generous, open Sam. He can find someone. 

“Will you keep an eye on him?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s… I know it’s better out there than it was, but it’s still dangerous.”

“Sam can take care of himself,” he reminds Thursday. But maybe that’s what being a parent is; children perpetually eight years old and something to be protected. Not capable of holding their own in any trouble that might come their way.

“Still, if you’re friends now - if you see anything, down the pub.”

He nods. He would step in. Not that he would be much physical help, except for tackling to the ground - that gets enough practice. But he knows himself well enough to know he wouldn’t hesitate. He could flash his badge around, too. “Of course.”

“Do you think he will find someone? The girls always seemed to like him well enough, but…” 

He thinks of Sam, with his broad shoulders and easy smile. 

Thursday coughs. “Is that? I mean, would men-” 

Oh god. His governor is asking if men would find his son attractive. He swallows around a sudden tickle in his throat, sure a coughing fit would be the least subtle response he could give. “Uh, I suppose,” he hedges. “If you like that kind of thing.” Like dark eyes and slender hands and arms that could lift a - anyway. Yes, Sam would be fine. 

“Okay, that’s - that’s good.”

He scratches his ear, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I should probably get going,” he says, although it’s not that late at all. “The uh, roses are looking lovely.”

Thursday fixes him with a speculative look, but it fades a second later and he just nods, pulling his pipe from a pocket. “Any Sunday, pop round. Always welcome.”

“Right. Right.” 

He’s halfway down the street when he remembers a long ago conversation with Joan; no one was ever good enough for Thursday’s little girl. And a mistaken declaration through a train window. Be good to her. Permission, almost.

He wonders if he’s good enough now. If he’s good enough for his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I think I actually have the rest of this written now, hence the quick update! Chapter 4 needs a bit of polishing but will be up very soon, and chapter 5 is about done so will follow it quickly ;)


	4. Chapter 4

He puts the whole awkward encounter out of his mind as best he can. He’s helped by one too many whiskeys a night, and then a hell of a case landing on his desk which drags in specialists from London and results in double shifts for everyone below DCI rank. He barely has time to eat or sleep, let alone think about Sam, and misses Wednesday’s pub quiz chained to the office - not even being  _ useful _ . He feels a flash of guilt at not looking out for him, which is ridiculous because he’s with his friends and the last thing he needs is a bodyguard anyway. It still makes him crotchety for days.

The case winds up just as all seemed lost, like it would become one of the mocking pile of unsolveds that teeter in the corner of the room. It’s a minuscule find by Max - a fragment of fabric - that tips the balance and sets the wheels in motion for the whole mess to fall apart. They finally mop up as Friday draws to a close, and all that keeps him going is the thought of a long, quiet weekend to sleep. 

He’s filling out the booking paperwork for the last of the gang when his phone goes.

“Morse.”

“Morse, hey, it’s Sam.”

He sits a little straighter. “Hello.”

“Are you free this Sunday?”

“I can be.”

“How do you feel about free cake?”

“Huh?”

“Alright, alright. Look, Joan’s got some wedding preparations and I need to get fitted for my suit at the same time. She means well, but… well, Drew’s left the men’s suit choice up to her, and she’s clueless and I’m useless…”

“And you think I’m much better?” he laughs into the receiver.

Amusement colours Sam’s tone. “Maybe not, but she said I could invite someone, and three heads are better than two. She’s also tasting cakes.” There’s a pause, and then, “you said it was never like that, between you.”

It hadn’t even occurred to him. That if she’d said yes, in that dark flat so many years ago, that he would have gone to the cake tasting, he would have chosen the suits. “It wasn’t.”

“So will you come?”

It feels like setting himself up for a fall. But he can’t imagine he’ll be at the wedding, and a chance to see Sam in his suit - what will he be, an usher? - decides for him. “Yes, yes, alright. Where and when?”

\--

He picks Sam up in the car, because Joan has chosen a wedding outfitters on the edge of Wolvercote rather than anything handy and central. He turns the dial to Radio 3, and they drive in companionable, quiet respect for Mozart’s eighth. As they get closer, Sam consults a scrap of paper for directions, and eventually they pull up in front of S.M Hardy’s tailor shop.

The doorbell tinkles as they push through, and Sam is immediately collared by a well-dressed man of about five and a half feet. The difference is almost comical, but he darts about as if measuring by eye, making up for lack of stature in pure, busy movement, and then studies Morse closely. 

“It’ll be tricky to marry both looks,” he says finally, flicking his eyes over Morse and then returning to Sam, “but I do like a challenge. Your sister left the choice up to you, yes?” Sam nods. “Then I suggest perhaps blue. It works well with both dark and lighter complexions-”

“Oh, no,” Morse says, shaking his hands in front of him. “I’m not an usher. Just Sam.”

The man’s face drops, perhaps at the realisation he won’t be selling two suits instead of one, but then brightens again. “Well, that extends our options. Miss Thursday is through that door, Sir, if you’d care to wait.”

He has the strange urge to knock, but dampens it down. The door closes heavily behind him and Joan startles, dark hair whipping round and eyes widening in shock when they land on him. They look at each other awkwardly. 

“Ah,” he clears his throat. “Sam didn’t mention he’d invited me?”

She rolls her eyes and kicks the chair next to her from under the table. He sits, gingerly, careful not to knock anything and disturb her mountains of magazines. It looks like she’s brought most of the newsagents with her. “No. When I said he could bring a friend, I thought he’d bring Benny.”

“Do you… mind?”

She fixes him with a long look, head tilted. “No, of course not,” she says eventually. “Although if I’d known, I'd have thought you might, I suppose. That’s a bit conceited of me, isn’t it?”

He chuckles. “I imagine you’ve left a long line of broken hearts. But mine’s not one of them.” He glances at the impersonal pictures on the walls, and honesty forces him to add, “any more, that is. I…”

“Yes?”

“I never told him.” He jerks his head in the direction of the changing room. “About any of it. You don’t have to worry.”

She smiles softly. “Thank you,” she murmurs, before straightening her shoulders. “Now what do you think of this?” She slides the top magazine over; it’s open to a bridesmaid spread, peach coloured ruffles and enough netting to give the models the overall look of pepperpots. 

“Uh…”

Sam appears, and he’s glad for the distraction. He’s less glad that he’s done up in a suit, when he realises he’s never seen Sam in one before. In his casual clothes, in his army uniform, even sleeves rolled up, dirt-streaked builder Sam, but there’s something about him fastened up that makes his heart skip. 

Maybe it's just Sam. He had a similar reaction to the builder look too, if he’s honest.

“It’s all just pinned at the moment,” Sam spins, and sure enough the back is a mess of silver holding bits together. “But this is option one, I guess.”

Option one. Which suggests an option two, three, maybe even four. He fixes his eyes on the magazine in front of him; twelve essential flower arrangements for your big day.

“It’s nice,” hums Joan. “The colour suits you. Doesn’t it Morse?”

“Hmm?”

She pokes him in the side, and he forces his head up. Sam is smirking, although it’s slightly too warm in here, and he must be roasting done up in all that. He resists the urge to pull at his collar or roll up his sleeves. 

“You’re meant to be here as another male opinion, so pull your weight. Yes or no? I don’t know much about suits.”

“You think I do?”

“You live in them, Morse.” 

That’s a lie; he’s not wearing one today, just trousers and a jumper. “Work suits, not-” he waves a hand at Sam, unable to articulate. 

“The fact that you can even differentiate means you’re a level above me.”

“And me,” chips in Sam, and Morse groans. 

“It’s… good.”

“Good,” Joan says flatly. 

“You’re meant to be building me up, Morse, I want to upstage the bride.”

Now it’s  _ definitely  _ too warm; Sam is practically  _ flirting  _ with him in front of Joan. He keeps his face fixedly straight and shrugs. “I guess we need to see the others?”

“Uh, more pins.” Sam shuffles forward and catches sight of the magazine spread in front of them. “You’re not subjecting your bridesmaids to that, are you?” he asks Joan. “I never thought you were cruel.”

“Well, what would you know about what makes a girl look good-” she cuts herself off, looking horrified.

“You know?” asks Morse.

“ _ You  _ know?!” 

Sam drops a hand on both of their shoulders, and leans over. “The whole room knows I’m not the person to ask,” he quips with twinkling eyes. “Morse, over to you.”

“Do I get the power to veto?”

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“If the objective is that the best man should want to date the head bridesmaid,” he jabs a finger at the peach, “…that isn’t going to work.”

Sam laughs. “I’m going to go get out of this,” he says, picking at his sleeves, “because the sooner we get through the others, the sooner we can go eat cake. It’s the only reason I agreed to come on this outing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joan waves him off, and waits until he’s out of the room. “He’s been complaining about this for weeks, I thought he’d be a total misery guts today.” She looks at him consideringly. “So you’re friends now?”

“Well, yes. We ran into each other in the pub a couple of months ago. I didn’t recognise him.”

She smiles, and it makes an old, familiar affection flicker within him. She pulls the magazines closer, removing the folded down corner of the peach dress page. “Yes, he’s changed, hasn’t he? But underneath… he’s still my baby brother.”

“Mmm.”

“That never quite goes away.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want it to, would you?” 

She gives him an odd look, and shakes her head slightly. “Close enough friends that he told you… about him?”

The door opens, and he breathes a sigh of relief, only to freeze when he turns. If he thought Sam in the last suit was a sight to see, this new one… well, the bridesmaids will have a field day if the other ushers measure up. Sam spreads his arms out to side and executes a quick spin.

“Option two.”

“Better,” Joan says, getting up and inspecting the fabric closely. “This won’t be too warm, though? It feels a bit woolly.”

“No, it’s pretty thin fabric-”

“It’s nice, soft.” She turns and looks over at Morse. He pulls back from the magazine spread, and represses a wince at the way his sudden sweat has made it stick to his fingers, ink bleeding from the page and staining his hand. “Morse?”

“Nice,” he manages, and to his horror, forms his hand into a thumbs up. Sam’s eyes widen, sparkling with humour, and Joan just outright laughs at him. He’d quite like to hit himself over the head right about now. “Option three?” he asks.

“No, this one will do,” Sam states, and shrugs out of the jacket carefully enough not to dislodge any pins. “So… cake now?”

Joan rolls her eyes. “I’m glad you’ve got your priorities straight.  _ Yes _ , cake, come on - let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't so sure about this chapter... I don't know? Let me know what you think. And the finale will be up very soon!


	5. Chapter 5

He sees less of Sam over the next few months. He’s busy, with a new job in the council and helping Joan with her wedding plans, because it seems she doesn’t want her parents too involved, but the fiancé is next to useless when it comes to party planning. If he’d had to guess, he would have said it was usually the bridesmaids who stepped in for such situations, but maybe they got wind of the peach monstrosity. Either way, Sam seems Joan’s choice number one.

They still meet up on occasion, of course, but it never seems to be just the two of them, and he’s not sure if that’s an accident or design. Instead it’s the odd overlap at the Thursday house for Sunday lunch, and, of course, Wednesday quiz nights down the Eagle when they both manage to make the same night.

It’s his own fault, he knows. He could have had more, and he pushed it away, and got friendship instead. And it  _ is  _ that - it’s shared banter and pub tables, and being owed a pint next time Sam gets paid. He doesn’t have so many friendships that he’s ungrateful. It’s much like his relationship with Max, except without so much in the way of poetry or literature, and decidedly fewer gory stories designed to drive him away and up to the bar to get a round in. But even so, he can’t stop his eyes lingering on Sam’s graceful hands, or the broad span of his shoulders. Can’t help the way he attunes to his voice, so that Murray or Benny fade into the pub chatter while Sam rings crystal clear.

It’s okay. It’s enough. It has to be.

He tells himself that - over and over again, one Wednesday when Sam heads up to get another drink and doesn’t come back. He shifts over slightly in his seat, just enough to bring Sam into his eyeline, and he’s leaning forward, elbows on the polished wood of the bar and head tilting to the side as another man comes to wait next to him.

And... well, it's subtle, because it has to be. You’d look and think them friends perhaps, only he’s pretty sure he knows most of Sam’s friends now - by sight at least - and they greet each other slowly, too much eye contact and a handshake that lingers, fingers sliding against each other a little too deliberately.

He keeps half an eye on them, chatting long after they’ve been served and Sam should have come back to the table. He’s distracted enough that Benny tuts, but repeats the questions in his ear until he gives short answers that may or may not be right. He checks out entirely during the sport round, but they’re used enough to that, and if he takes the time to lean back in his chair, arms crossed - well, he’s never been the most social.

“I’m heading off,” Sam says forty minutes later, as he darts back and sweeps up his jacket. The results are still being tallied, but it’s been a poor show of an evening and none of them are expecting to win. Even so, Morse frowns. “Early shift tomorrow,” Sam explains with a sideways glance at Morse.

“Whatever Thursday, we’re drinking your beer when we come third,” says Benny.

“We’re not coming third with that dismal geography round-”

“Shut up Murray,” Benny and Sam say in unison, and grin at each other. Morse gulps his beer.

“Next week?” asks Benny.

“Yep, but - football, Sunday?”

“Definitely.”

“Right, night then.”

The other man follows Sam out. Again, it’s subtle. Like he just happened to finish his drink when he did, even though he’d been nursing the last few mouthfuls while Sam said his goodbyes. There’s a gap too, a deliberate pause, but it doesn’t take a detective to put the clues together. Sam is going home with that man. Or has invited him to his place. He downs the last of his beer too quickly, coughing until Murray claps him on the back.

“Easy there, brainbox.”

“I’ve got to go too,” he says, scrambling to his feet. The pub is suddenly too close, too loud, and they haven’t won anything anyway with Sam at the bar all night and him distracted. He needs to get out of here. Home. Home and something loud on the turntable. That’s what he wants. 

Honestly.

The night air is welcoming when he spills outside, and he breathes great cool gulps of it, still fixing his coat. Benny and Murray are alright, he thinks. But they’re Sam’s friends, and Sam abandoned him - Sam went off with… anyway. Sam’s entitled. Young, and free, and nothing illegal about it anymore, either. It feels like something has a hold of his throat, throttling him, but Sam’s more than entitled. 

“Morse.”

He whips around, mind playing tricks, thinking it heard - but it did hear. That’s Sam, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, one knee bent to place the sole of his foot flat against brick, and a curl of smoke from his cigarette rising high on the still night air. Alone.

“What?” he asks, intelligently.

“Followed me out?”

“No,” he protests, although that’s exactly what he did. But he didn’t do it to - to  _ interrupt _ , because Sam is entitled. That other man, he was interested, it could be read in every word he said, every move he made. Who wouldn’t be? Who could be interested in men and not in Sam?

“Sure about that?”

Not sure at all. He shrugs, as close as he can get even now to an admission. “What happened to your friend?”

“Gave him the heave ho.”

“Why?”

Sam pushes off the wall, walking away, and it’s easy to fall into step with him. Two friends, weaving their way back from the pub on a weekday evening. The smell of smoke reminds him of his brief forays into the world of smoking, and something makes him steal the cigarette. It feels illicit, placing his lips where Sam’s just were, dragging smoke out and letting it loose in a long stream. He turns to find Sam watching him closely. 

“You know why,” Sam says eventually, roughly, when the silence has stretched like toffee. 

“Still?”

“Don’t be a dick about it, Morse.” Sam scuffs his shoes on the pavement as he walks, kicking up tiny pebbles and gravel, scraping along. Morse pulls again on his stolen cigarette, then offers it back. Their fingers brush as Sam takes it.

“Alright then.”

“Good.”

“No, alright.” He catches Sam’s sleeve, halting their movement. To his surprise, Sam darkens.

“I don’t want a bloody pity-”

“No, not - not that.” He doesn't know how to say it, how to articulate in a way that will make Sam understand. But he recognises the street they’re on, he knows Sam lives only a few hundred yards away. He starts walking again, purposeful, and after a second hears footsteps take up behind him. He stops on Sam’s stoop.

“Morse…”

“Can I come in?”

Sam unlocks the front door, silent. He lets it swing open, but they both stay frozen on the threshold, staring into the darkness within. “Going to freak out again?”

“I hope not.”

“Reassuring.”

Sam steps in, fumbling for the light switch and then the next key. He unlocks the door to his flat, and it’s just like it was the last time. Morse hadn’t thought he’d paid attention, but obviously even distracted  _ something  _ had made its way through, because the layout is familiar, as are the clothes heaped on the chair in the corner, and the dirty dishes piled up at the sink. It’s lived in; the way his own house is, the way he expects most bachelor pads are. 

“I’d offer you whiskey, because you look like you need it, but I don’t actually have any.”

“I didn’t think you liked it, that time I bought you one.”

“I don’t know how you drink it.”

“Blame your Dad, he bought me my first beer. Slippery slope.”

Sam freezes, but Morse smiles. He thinks of that day, waking up on Max’s couch back when he was still just ‘the pathologist’, the embarrassment when he realised what had happened. He remembers Thursday shuffling him out and buying him lunch in the sunshine, and the way the beer had set his brain working again, numbing the shame until things were back on an even keel.

A long time ago.

“He got me mine, too.”

“I’m not running.”

“No…”

They’re staring at each other, metres apart, but Sam’s heating has obviously kicked on, because it’s warm in the small room. Morse strips off his coat and drops it over the back of the nearest chair. “A while back - you said something about alleyways. Back before we were here… the first time.”

“Mmm?”

“You said I’d leg it down one if you talked about what you wanted to talk about.”

Sam swallows. Even across the room, he can see the way his throat bobs. He nods in understanding. “But you’re not running.”

“Want to talk?”

A small puff of breath. “Not really.”

It takes a minute. A slow, careful minute where Sam takes a step forward and then he does, and it feels ridiculous because he already knows what those lips taste like, he’s already felt that body against his. But he’s also already pushed it all away, so he probably can’t blame Sam for being skittish. For giving him a chance to bail before anything is really confirmed. Before they can’t turn back again.

“Say my name?”

“Sam,” he answers immediately. They’re close now, that familiar presence - and they’ve been closer, elbow to elbow over a pub quiz sheet - but this is face to face, and alone, and it’s different. 

“No, my full name.”

“Samuel Thursday?”

Sam raises a hand, cupping his face. His thumb brushes his cheek, close enough to the sensitive skin under his eye. 

Enough of this.

He surges forwards, sealing their lips together. Sam stutters, but rallies, hand slipping round to rake deeply through Morse’s hair, tugging on the strands as the other lands strong and sure on his shoulder. 

God, he’s not giving this up again. He’s having this, this time, he’s in it - but - Sam’s holding back, firm but so careful, like Morse is a favoured piece of crockery, something that can’t be broken. He might go both ways, but it’s women he usually ends up with and then he’s the aggressor - even with those who push back, and how he loves that, he tends to be bigger, stronger. He’s not here, head tilted oddly upwards, and somehow that awareness had been dulled until just now; Sam’s careful fingers manoeuvring him into place but leaving enough leeway to get free.

Sam’s mouth trails down his neck, then back up to his ear.

“You can-” 

He cuts himself off, pulling Sam up for another kiss, because he doesn’t want to  _ talk.  _ But Sam’s as careful as ever. He tries to fight back, pushy, but Sam just lets himself be manhandled, like Morse could actually move him if he wanted to, and it makes him groan in frustration.

“What?” Sam asks, his voice short and half-broken with desire.

He shakes his head.

“What?” Sam repeats, more playfully, word whispered into his ear until it was as much the sensation of breath on skin as sound. He follows it up with a little nip, and that breaks Morse. He twists his hands in Sam’s jacket, spins until his own back hits the wall and pulls Sam in to follow him, dragging him close until they line up together, until he’s entirely surrounded, Sam in front, above and all around him. “Oh,” Sam breathes.

_ God, _ he wants to climb Sam. The thought makes him blush, cheeks on fire, but it’s  _ true _ . He would. If Sam wanted him to… he’s not sure what he’d do. It’s never felt quite like this before, and how embarrassing is that, to make it to this age and not know? Sam seems to know. He seems to have had everything figured out, while Morse has been spinning his wheels for years…

Although, all that wheel spinning brought him here, now, to Sam pressing against him, finally. If he… if he hitched one leg up, would - could - 

Sam laughs into his neck, and it must be uncomfortable bent over like that, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Sam’s hard against him, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling. He trails his hands round until they land on Sam’s arse. He should see about a bed, somewhere they can line up better, do things properly. But that all seems a long way away…

Fuck it.

\--

He’d expect it to be awkward, the aftermath, the come down; sprawled as they are on Sam’s living room floor. But Sam has one hand on Morse’s stomach, and his face pressed into his neck and… well, he’s not sure they’ve exactly got it all figured out, but the panic he expected hasn’t come. All he feels is a boneless sort of contentment, even as floorboards dig into his spine.

“Mph,” mutters Sam, and Morse looks down and to the side, trying to catch his eye. But they’re closed, just a small smile playing across his lips. Morse’s fingers twitch, and he thinks, what the hell. He draws his hand up to play through Sam’s hair, and watches that smile grow.

“I could really do with a cup of tea.”

“Mph,” Sam repeats, and Morse sighs. He untangles himself, cold where he’d just had Sam pressed against his side. He pulls his trousers on instead, and his shirt, although he doesn’t bother to button it. The kitchen is open to the living room, and he sticks the kettle on before rooting in the fridge for milk.

“Here,” he says a minute or two later. Sam has pulled himself up onto the sofa, and takes the mug with an odd expression.

“Very domestic of you, Morse,” he says, accepting a biscuit from a packet Morse had found and opened. 

“Well my host wasn’t pulling his weight.” 

“No? I think I did rather well.”

Morse ignores him, except for a fond eye roll. “So I had to fend for myself.”

“Diddums.”

He bites into another biscuit. The pub feels like a lifetime ago, world twisted on its axis, and the quick dinner he’d bolted before going even more distant. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Sam nods, pausing his chewing. “You’re going then?”

He doesn’t really want to. Sam is a long line of warmth at his side again, and with the tea and the biscuits he could easily let sleep take over, hidden away in a flat on Holywell street. But - “clean shirt, you know.”

“Right.”

He glances sideways, and then steals Sam’s tea. He leans over and puts it on the table, then captures him in a hard, sure kiss. It feels like it’s going somewhere, much as he’s not up for that, but he lets it deepen until he has to pull away to gasp in air. “I’ll see you,” he says firmly.

Sam grins. “Right.”

\--

The knocking is brazen, thumping, and he’s not asleep but he is bed, in his pyjamas, and if it wasn’t so insistent he’d ignore it. But it is insistent, obviously an emergency - he leaps up, feet cold on the bare tiles and runs to open the door.

“I brought you cake.”

Sam. Bowtie and top button undone, looking like some kind of centrefold the way he leans on the side of the porch - but it’s a drunken sway, he can tell, because his eyes are a little less sharp than he knows they can be. His rumpledness is a product of carelessness, booze and time rather than artfully tweaked. It’s only been four days since he saw him last - since they tangled together on a hard floor - but it’s felt like longer.

“Can I come in? You have to let me in, I brought cake.”

Joan’s wedding, he realises. He’d known it was today, of course he had, but he’d put it out of his mind. He catches the napkin-wrapped parcel Sam hands him, pushing his way past and in. 

“Sam-”

“It’s the lemon. You liked that one right?” 

Sam pulls him in with one hand, the other slamming the still open door closed. He had liked the lemon. He just hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t his place to choose after all; he wasn’t going to the wedding, and even if he had been, that sort of thing was down to Joan. Sam could pepper her with his opinions, he’d been doing it his whole life, but Morse’s preference didn’t come into it. 

“I could tell. This little line-” he presses a wavering finger to the crease between Morse’s brows- “disappeared when you ate it.”

He’d been looking that closely, even then? Maybe he should have gone into the police after all. 

“Aren’t you going to eat it?”

He finds his voice. “Now?”

“Midnight snack,” Sam chuckles. He’s leaning again, just an edge too far gone that brings out that old familiar languidness. Morse wonders how he made his way here. Whether the route was twice as long as it should have been with the meandering, or if someone dropped him off. Hopefully someone who doesn’t know where he lives, so doesn’t know that this isn’t it. “Morse. Cake.”

Cake? Oh, cake. It’s half-crushed in his hand, buttercream bleeding through the napkin and melting on his fingers. He swaps his grip and absentmindedly sucks it away; sweetness exploding on his tongue. 

“Morse…” Sam’s voice is low, his face close. Sense memory tips his head back, and Sam’s eyes are dark, pupils blown.

He pulls his finger from his mouth. Fuck the cake. There are better things he could be holding on to, when Sam looks like that. He could stop Sam’s mouth with a kiss, but that would be a shame with his voice all gravelly with drink and desire, so he diverts to suck on his neck instead, letting the answering groan ring out.

“Can we - jeez, Morse, can we? Where’s your bedroom?”

Hmm. Bedroom. A chance to do things properly this time. And more than that, a chance to get Sam spread out on his sheets.

He tugs at the dangling ends of Sam’s tie, drawing him backwards towards the stairs. He’s overdressed, he decides - both of them are, but especially Sam, with his suit jacket still covering those shoulders and his shoes in danger of crushing Morse’s bare toes with each step. 

“This way. Get those things off.”

\--

Sam’s awake when he pushes open his bedroom door the next morning. It must have been his tread on the creaky stairs that roused him though, because he’s still in that sleepy, confused state which makes Morse want to burrow back under the covers with him. He would, too, except he’s got a mug of tea in each hand and that could end up with very hot liquid in uncomfortable places. So he waits, instead, as Sam comes round enough to push himself upright and relieve him of one of the mugs. 

He drops a packet of biscuits on Sam’s lap as he clambers back in, and Sam raises them up to read the brand name, laughing. “I’m going to develop some kind of Pavlovian response to digestives at this rate.”

“I’d have done toast, but-” he shrugs. “Bread was mouldy.”

“Course it was.”

“How’s the head?”

“Fine.” He grins cheekily. “Benefits of youth.”

“Mmm, careful, that excuse won’t work for much longer.” 

Sam leans against him, head on his shoulder and dropping crumbs everywhere. “You know… I’m not exactly out there waving a flag. And I know it’s tough for you, with the job you do.”

“Huh?”

“This.” Sam offers him the biscuit packet and he waves it off, still nibbling the last one. “Us. Joan, I mean, I think she already knows.” He raises his head, glancing worriedly at Morse. “Not everything! Just, well you know how perceptive she is. She can tell I like you.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t need to shout it from the rooftops, and there are solid reasons why we wouldn’t. But. I’d like to tell my mum and dad.”

The Thursdays. Of course he does; they’re a close family. And he’s just told them that he’s gay - to start hiding again so soon. It would be unfair. 

“Really?”

The sun is just creeping around the curtains, and Sam is silent at his side. Morse dunks the last bite of his biscuit in his tea, catching it just before it falls and ruins the cup.

“No, not really. Well, yes, someday. But I mostly said it to see if you’d kick me out of bed and onto the street.” Sam slurps his tea. “I’m glad you didn’t. Test passed, well done Morse.”

“We should.”

“Should what?”

“Should tell them.” It’ll have to happen eventually, he supposes. And fragments of that conversation among the roses - well, he’s not naive enough to think it will all be singing and dancing, and part of him would have liked to do it properly - but there is no properly, is there, when it comes to two men? He can’t ask Thursday for Sam’s hand, or even show up to dinner with an engagement ring, and anyway, it’s not like it is with women, there’s not the same expectation of virtue or innocence that needs protecting. So no, it won’t be happy tears and out come the family photo albums or whatever the sitcoms like to use as shorthand tropes for happy families, but he doesn't think it will be the end of things either. He can’t see the door slamming in his face, or imagine Thursday’s fist in his gut.

It’ll work out. 

“...Mum cancelled Sunday lunch today… what with the wedding, and sleeping it off.”

“Next week?”

Sam puts his mug down, and twists until he’s facing Morse head on. “Are you sure?” 

He meets those dark eyes. He is. He doesn't know what will happen between the two of them in the future, and his track record is admittedly poor when it comes to what might be termed successful relationships. But Sam has already put up with a lot from him, and yet here he is, demolishing a packet of digestives in his bed on a Sunday morning. It might all end in one month, it might all end in two - or three, of four, or even a year - or maybe, just maybe, it might not end at all.

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Sam breathes, a smile breaking out across his face until it lights up the room. If anything’s Pavlovian it’s this, the way Sam’s joy sparks it deep within him as well, and then suddenly they’re both laughing - for no reason. Relief, perhaps. Sam leans forward, and his shoulder knocks Morse’s hand, spilling tea everywhere - luckily cooled enough not to burn.

“Shit, sorry-”

“Don’t worry, leave it-” he twists until he can abandon the cup on the floor, flipping over to burrow down to where the sheets are still dry. “Leave it. Sam.” He catches his hands where they still pat at the covers, and draws them instead underneath, to where it’s dark and warm and just theirs, fingers entwining. “Leave it. Come here.”

He tastes like tea, Morse thinks, smiling into the kiss. And biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with this to the end! I hope you enjoyed this foray into the most unusual of ships, normal service will resume soon :)


End file.
